Crime and Punishment
by Ceniza Quill
Summary: In the margins of an old book Detective Alexandra Eames finds the autobiography of a man. Reading on, she discovers his disturbing decent to murder and madness. Now she has to solve a murder that may never have been committed.
1. Columns of Names and Years

Disclaimer; I Disclaim therefore I am. (Am not an owner of Dick Wolf's characters - which is obvious, because they are Dick Wolf's characters, however all other façets of this story, such as the plot and characters, that are not associated with the television program are definitively mine, my own, my preciousssssss.)  
  
Author's Note: (or more correctly defined) Additional Disclaimer: I do not own various extracts from books (for example Crime and Punishment) or poetry that may be included at some point along the way.thank you very much indeed for your attention thus far.  
  
bChapter 1 ~ Columns of Names and Years/b  
  
She felt a little aimless, tucking her feet under the blanket in that mandatory - but futile - effort to conserve the lingering vestiges of warmth. Sniffing contentedly she tossed her hair over her shoulder and fussily patted the bed clothes into place. It was Sunday morning. It was her day off.  
  
'Aw, who am I kidding,' Alex muttered, swinging her legs out of the bed and bare-footedly dancing to the shower. Outside, a frosty kiss clung to the pointed tips of the railings and the grass, now barely visible in the early morning light, was an appealing silvered mat, unmoving but glistening. She was in one of those moods where everything is frustratingly unfulfilling. The mess of paper on the kitchen table was irritating but she had neither the energy nor inclination to bother. Waiting for the kettle to boil she found herself contriving a mission for this, the most missionless of days. Glancing around the apartment, she fiddled with her hair. 'Goddamn it.' She slammed down her coffee-cup in disgust. She hated these raw, uncomfortable mornings where the air was too chilled to be refreshing and too warm to warrant an interesting conflict with the thermostat. Pulling on a jacket she resorted to retail therapy, and the old adage, that spending will heal all wounds. Shopping was the most flexible timewaster invented by the human race and arguably more addictive than television.  
  
'Bookshop' Alex decided, pulling the cold metal handle of the door towards her as she escaped into the warm smell of antiquarian dust. It had that muffled silence that she loved as she meandered around the wooden shelves and leather bound first editions. The crisscrossed web of pathways led towards the stain-glass window crowning an antique mahogany desk at the back wall of the shop. A young man in his twenties was reading intently, a tide of books extending from his reclined position. His hunched form reminded her of Goran, truthfully mirroring his posture while consumed by words and phrases. Alex ran her fingers along the spines of the books in respect of the painstaking construction of the volumes. Newton's Principia Mathematica, Darwin's Origin of Species, Freud's The Interpretation of Dreams - Die Traumdeutung, Alex could not help but wonder how many of these books Goran had read along his way to where he was today.  
  
On the top she noticed a black tome that seemed out of place amongst the dark red leather of the other books. It had its spine turned inwards. She stretched up, cursing her inability to grasp it. A polite cough made her look around; the man behind the desk had pulled his attention away from his work and was waving a small wooden box. 'Hi, I decided to be a superbly annoying git and hold the diminutive stepladder hostage.' He placed the carved teak stairs on the ground and hopped up the three steps and turned, 'so what is it that warrants a lady risking twisted ankles?'  
  
Alex grinned at his accent, 'Curiosity, I wanted to know what that book was,' she indicated the thick clump of pages in the corner, 'you're Irish?' She guessed that he was smiling even though she could not see his face. He vehemently spat something in annoyance in a foreign language as the novel refused to slide out of its place.  
  
'Yup, I'm', he slipped his fingers behind the book in an attempt to lever it out, 'Irish.lads, this is really stuck.' He removed a hefty copy of Don Quijote de la Mancha from further along the shelf to allow himself more room and eventually he succeeded in releasing the now identified classic from its papery prison. 'Annnnnd, we have got a rather pretty publication of Dostoyevsky's Crime and Punishment.' He lightly leapt down and carefully laid it in Alex's hands after examining the inside cover for a moment and then smiling in approval, 'illustrated, and in good condition. I wonder how I never spotted it. Anyway I'll leave you in peace.' He demurely picked his way through the arranged system of books and reinstalled himself in his place, and just as you blow out a candle, his interest in the outside world was quenched.  
  
Alex peeled back the translucent protective cover and studied an illustration of a melancholy man named Raskolnikov. He bore an uncanny resemblance to the Irish boy now chewing his pen in concentration. Looking out the window, it started to rain. 'What a day.' she whispered having decided to buy the book. She rapped gently on the mahogany to get his attention. He smiled pleasantly, 'I bestow this eternally excellent tale of guilt upon you', he lovingly wrapped it in dark crêpe paper, 'may I ask your name?' He pulled out a heavy ledger and searched through the wrinkled pages until he found a blank line, he placed a pot of ink on the desk and dipped an ivory fountain pen in the black liquid. Alex raised an eyebrow and leaned over to examine the ledger, 'what is it?'  
  
He grinned, 'It is a tradition of the shop, started by the original proprietor, every time we sell a book we record its name, the date, and the names of the seller and the new owner. I think it's charming, even though most people nowadays think it's creepy.' He signed "Ruaidhrí O' Murchú" neatly in his slanted spidery handwriting next to the title and offered her the pen. She flicked back through some of the pages, scanning the columns and columns of names and years. As she returned to the page that would record her purchase she noticed a reoccurrence of names, and tucked away at the end of a leaf, a certain R. Goren. She laughed, and pointed at the familiar signature, 'he's a colleague. I should have known he would have found his way here.' She signed, "Alexandra Eames", 'how do you pronounce your name, it is Irish right?'  
  
He returned the heavy ledger under the desk, 'yeah, in English it is Rory Murphy, but my parents are really into the native language. You pronounce it Rue-er-ree Oh Mur-huh-coo' she decided not to try to duplicate the guttural technique he used to say the 'chú' and just stared at him instead. He laughed, 'Just call me Rory.' 'Thanks, Goodbye Rory' 'See ya' round. Enjoy the book.' 


	2. The Truth of my Being

Chapter 2 ~ The Truth of my Being  
  
Admittedly the leather binding and intricate golden web around the title would seem out of place next to the rest of her books but Alex found herself relegating older paperbacks from the top shelf to make a home for Dostoyevsky's most famous work. It slid easily into place and she paused, just looking at it in satisfaction for a moment before reprimanding herself internally for her lack of initiative earlier on when she had ignored the disorder in the apartment. A breeze playfully buffeted the leaves outside the window. It rained sparse cold drops. It rained rusty leaves. It rained a thousand memories and Alex sat down in awe of her nostalgia, brought on by nothing more than the inauspicious clouds. She felt deflated and tired, looking out the window lost in thought. Tomorrow she would be back at work and the world seemed distressingly immense and insurmountable, Alex cursed for the third time that day. The sun began to set and she pulled down the book from the shelf, caffeine at the ready. The golden light spilt in through the half-closed curtains. It moved slowly across the floor and pooled at Alex's feet before she even noticed that daylight was fading. There was silence in the apartment, only broken by the sporadic page turning.  
  
'Well,' he exclaimed involuntarily, all of a sudden, 'what if I am wrong? What if man isn't really a beast – man in general, I mean, the whole human race, that is; for if he is not, then all the rest is just prejudice, just imagined fears, and there is nothing to stop you from doing anything you like, and that's as it should be!' – Fyodor Dostoyevsky's Crime and Punishment pg.44  
  
Alex smiled as she leaned over to switch on the table lamp, 'If Bobby hasn't read this, he really should. This would fascinate him.' Turning to chapter three her fingers froze on the rim of the page. Black illegible handwriting weaved its way around the Roman numeral at the head of the page, it continued down in pillars of squat thick lettering in the margins. Sections of the prose were underlined and for a few seconds Alex thought that perhaps these were invasive notes and observations by some student long finished his studies, until she read on...  
  
'I have drawn myself completely from this world, no longer seeing in it the shining jewels visible as a young man. Does this make me ungrateful? I cried once at a sunset. The beauty was an intangible enchantment that I did not believe myself worthy of. I feel now that the sun of my life is setting and that I should leave the same scarlet bloody streaks across the sky of a world I have come to despise. I have no legacy but these meagre scribbles and scratchings that will undoubtedly fail me in my quest to explain, or at least attempt to authorize, empower if you will, the meanings and motives assigned so cautiously to my actions. I will scribe in this volume the truth of my being.'  
  
Alex dropped the book on the chair and stepped away looking at it as though it were a real man speaking to her. 'This is not good.' Nervously her eyes darted around the apartment in an episode of unsubstantiated paranoia and she shivered involuntarily and then, perhaps realizing that this whole thing was most likely a hoax, shook herself and smiled self-admonishingly. Picking the book back up she decided to show it to Bobby the next day and see what he made of these egotistical memoirs. She continued.  
  
'I have only killed once, and it was in a passionate rage that I could not control. No, perhaps I allow a futile leniency to my own guilt. I must admit it is difficult for me to acknowledgement my own petty motives. This plethora of emotions was more than just anger at the poor soul in question, but in fact, curiosity at the true colour of a dying man's blood. Shall I circumvent normal protestations of innocence? Shall I shoot to the truth, as an arrow to a target? In some fit of superiority I thought myself above it all for a while. Lost in my own insignificance I thought myself immune somehow. Death has become a strange business in the world that we now live. Justice and the search for this treasure has become a process undervalued and run-of-the-mill. Should it be lent mythical connotations? Honour and integrity are still esteemed, but only as a warrior seeking revenge for his master or cowboy haunted by memories of a dead family in Hollywood's cheap portrayal of the definition of good and evil. When did the cherishment of veracity fade in the bright and gaudy lights of modern society?'  
  
Alex was now unsettled and snapped the volume shut in a worthless gesture of her insistence that it was not real. She ate a late dinner and later, watching the television, found herself consciously averting her gaze from the guilty allure of this anonymous man's intoxicating confession. 


	3. Etiam capillus unus habet umbram

Chapter 3 ~ Etiam capillus unus habet umbram  
  
Detective Robert Goren snorted quietly in amusement as an answer that had hitherto eluded him made its presence known. He carefully, and with an undisguised flourish, lettered the solution into its place in the days advanced crossword. A one-way mirror allowed him to observe the drug addict stewing in his own juices in the interrogation room at the other side of the glass but for the last fifteen minutes he had relaxed, confident in the suspect's ability to undermine himself without any effort on the part of the detective. Bobby had walked in to the room, taken one look at the junkie, and sat down with the crossword, chuckling to himself. A uniform watched Detective Goren's brief, but nonetheless accurate elucidation of the suspect's condition in awe and had jumped in surprise when the Sigmund Freud of the major crime squad had asked – very politely – if he would mind doing him a little favour. Pausing before he executed Goren's plan officer Nicolas Mackenzie muttered that this guy was insane but if it worked he wouldn't allow the locker room critics to mimic him for at least a week.  
  
A fresh faced policeman suddenly opened the interrogation room door and walked in, stopping in surprise when he saw Max hunched over the table.  
  
'Hold on, you're the junkie...haven't they charged you yet?'  
  
Max, now bleary eyed at the pinnacle of withdrawal, pulled his ragged consciousness together enough to understand that he was going to be charged.  
  
'Wh...wh, what? Charged? Huh?'  
  
'Ahhh, Myers said they had shipped this waste of space off already. Hey? Sampson?' Mackenzie's voice echoed down the empty corridor, he continued more quietly  
  
'This guy is supposed to be serving life somewhere far away from this interrogation room...crap.'  
  
The officer shook his head in disgust at the floor before directing his glare at the murder suspect who was threatening to repeat his lunch. Max could not remember what exactly had taken place in the last few hours, but now seemed like a good time to rectify any misunderstandings that may have arisen.  
  
'Hey you, I didn't kill nobody.'  
  
His sprawling fingers were splayed across the desk, extended with his plea, they distractedly ran through his hair, and his ribs, pressed tightly to his t-shirt, leant a grotesque vulnerability to his sorry quivering state. 'It wasn't me, no man, I don't know what you been told, but it wasn't me that offed that guy, it was Eddie.'  
  
Officer Nicholas Mackenzie decided to buy Goren a drink if they ever met in a pub. It seemed that only he could scare a drug addict into giving a straight answer without even entering the room.  
  
Alex smiled to herself when the story of Bobby's scare tactics circulated in her general direction. She was hoping that maybe he could press the cumbersome book she had stuffed in her handbag to his forehead and get some sort of reading from the powers that be - namely his brain cells - categorizing her discovery 'catalyst of one of the strangest murder investigations ever' or 'nonsensical ramblings.' He was at his desk scrutinizing a sheet of paper, fingers steepled and elbows settled comfortably on the wooden surface. As she approached he moved and perched on the edge of the table, leaning towards her, obviously with some resolution to a case he was working.  
  
'Eames, you wouldn't happen to remember what the code of your high-school locker was when you were sixteen-years-old?' Alexx calmly considered the question for a moment, 'something like twenty- four, forty-two, seventeen. Wh...'  
  
Bobby cut her off, 'I assume you had a way of remembering it, like you connected it to something you were familiar with, right?'  
  
It was too early in the morning to do anything other than humour him, 'yeah.'  
  
'Like, boyfriend's birthday, number of tracks on your favourite album, number of nazgûl in the Lord of the Rings...'  
  
'Ummm, kind of, can I ask why?'  
  
'Just checking.'  
  
'I have my own strange question to ask. Could you take a look at this book and tell me what you think.'  
  
Bobby carefully opened the cover in admiration, impressed by the same illustration of Raskolnikov that had caught her eye.  
  
'Ahh, turn to chapter three,' she raised her eyebrows expectantly as he paused at the persistent scrawl.  
  
He looked up at her, 'What is this?'  
  
'I was hoping you could read it and tell me. I'm afraid I'm not quite as au fait with craziness as you are.'  
  
'Thanks,' he sank back into his chair and began to read absorbedly. Realizing that his emergence from this trance-like fixation with the prose was unlikely to be over any time soon, she dropped into her own chair and tackled the mount of paperwork that eternally remained undaunted by her valiant efforts. She heard Bobby shift in his seat and looked up. He was frowning, his eyes narrowed and he massaged his forehead in annoyance.  
  
'What? What is it?'  
  
'Shhhhh, I'm...', he waved her question away dismissively and gritted his teeth.  
  
Unperturbed by his disregard she waited for him to explain.  
  
'Hah!' he looked at her and motioned for her to come over, his long fingers ran quickly down the text searching for a phrase, they paused, tapping a Latin sentence, 'he repeats this again and again.' Bobby's voice was excited and interested and Alex knew that he was fully invested in this, her curious little problem.  
  
'I finally remembered what it means.'  
  
Alex read it aloud, 'Etiam capillus unus habet umbram. So?'  
  
He smiled, 'Even one hair has a shadow.' 


	4. Lachesis, Clotho, Atropos

Sorry this chapter took so long, I am currently grappling with a lot of school work.  
  
Chapter Four ~ Lachesis, Clotho, Atropos  
  
'Possessed, impervious. I could feel the scalding blood running through my veins! I could taste the air. My heart pounded, strong and pressured my chest. The knowledge of my own power coursed through me. I seemed to have innate instinctual capabilities as a predator. This would be it. I would dispel all fears. Have you ever gotten so close to freedom? So close to casting off all the constraints of guilt and just committed a crime without caring? Is this power? Is the ability to disregard consequence the real means of being impervious? My hands shook with the excitement, the ivory hilt of the knife slippery with blood so red it seemed unreal. I'm afraid you must excuse my egotism, for my first departure from conventional right and wrong, I indulged the artist in me and treated myself to a blade worthy of such an experiment. It seemed poetic, my dagger glinting silver, with its handle a dull eburnean sheen. So polished, so clean. It is ironic that the fire and brimstone waiting for me after this life was in his eyes as he fell to his knees. When The Fates, Lachesis, Clotho, Atropos came to him on the third, I wonder did they know. Could even they weave this?'  
  
Detective Robert Goran finished reading the paragraph aloud to his two companions, Alex and Captain Deakins. Alex smiled wryly 'He has got quite a way with words whoever he is.' James Deakins soberly nodded his agreement, 'Goran, what does he mean 'Fates', 'the third'?' 'In Greek mythology the three fates came to children three days after their birth and decided how long they would live, weaved the cloth of their destiny and then when the time came for that person to die, Atropos would cut the threads.' Tapping a pen on the cover of the book Deakins was visibly uncomfortable but he did not say anything. He knew that the detectives would make their case, given time. Alex frowned quizzically 'He asks a lot of rhetorical questions. Why?' Bobby stood and faced her, his long fingers animatedly gesturing towards the book as he explained, 'Well, I think he is making his plea, this is more than just a confession, more than an exercise in ego-boosting. This is his way of giving a reason. This is a man crazy with guilt, but too intoxicated by his own ingenuity to see it. But for all his remorse and culpability this was fuelled by despair. He probably found himself smothered by loneliness and frustration. This is his autobiography, his will and testament...this is his shadow.' Eames played with the bouquet of pens nestled together on her desk, 'What are we going to do?' Removing a thick creamy rectangular slice of manuscript from between two pages Goran smiled and ran his fingers along the tiny black type embossed understatedly at the bottom right hand corner. 'I think we should visit O' Murchú and co. and see what we can see.' Grabbing her coat Alex followed Bobby's long stride out the exit, 'Rory said he had never noticed it before.' 'Well somebody must have.'  
  
Passing under the fading wooden sign proclaiming the existence of the shop, Goran and Eames assuredly made their way towards that same stained glass window. This time, underneath the primary colours of the emerald and ruby winter light, sat the boy with an older man, hunched over an oak walking stick. Approaching him with a smile of recognition Bobby held out his hand, and the elderly gentleman shook it warmly, 'Detective Robert Goran, to what extraneous circumstances to we owe this pleasure?' he laughed pleasantly, and gestured to Ruaidhrí to go into a back room, 'bring our visitors coffee.' As he passed, Ruaidhrí winked at Alex and whispered, 'I think you have secured yourself a place in my Dad's good books by showing up with Mr. Goran.' Not missing a beat Mr O'Murchú waved his stick energetically at the young man, 'I see that you two already know each other, but you'll have plenty of time to chatter when you've gotten the coffee. Step quickly my son! Now you two, settle yourselves back here.' The stick, which seemed like an extension of the man himself, indicated towards the furniture that was cramped behind the desk. Alex realized how similar the father and son looked, both with the lively brown eyes, and pale skin, not to mention the lilting accent that made even the most mundane word sound as though it was hiding a deeper and truly amusing meaning. 'Now Goran, you must introduce this lady to me!' Grinning happily Bobby settled himself on a deep red sofa next to her, 'this is my partner, Alex Eames.' 'It's an honour to meet you. I am Tadhg', he grasped Alex's hand with a strength belying his age, 'now Robert, well 'tis a fierce strange thing to be seeing you on my doorstep at this hour of the morning.' 'Tadgh, we are here about a book Alex bought from Ruaidhrí.' Alex stared at him in wonderment; it seemed that amongst his many talents he could pronounce awkward names. Bobby slid 'Crime and Punishment' from a brown paper bag and gingerly opened on the appropriate page, 'we were wondering if you knew anything about this.' The old man perched a delicate pair of gold rimmed reading glasses on the end of his nose. 'Well, now what do we have here?' he fell silent as he began to read and then, relaxing back into his armchair he sighed, 'an unfortunate thing you brought here Robert. I think I know what this is.' Ruaidhrí returned and poured everybody coffee while his father tentatively studied each page of chapter three, reading the words quickly. After a minutes silence he turned to Alex, an admiring smile on his face. 'How terribly quixotic! It seems you have made yourself his Aldonza Lorenzo, his Dulcinea del Toboso, the aim of his heart and the witness to his deed.' 'I wasn't intending to.' 'Neither was she. Through you, as the discoverer and reader of this, he defines himself as an errant knight with a mission. I'm surprised he hasn't declared himself Don Quixote de la Mancha!' Bobby waved a finger, 'Does that mean you think this is all untrue?' 'Pompous old man prone to pretentious polysyllabic preaching and an aficionado of soliloquies', Ruaidhrí chuckled to himself, 'I shouldn't think that he would even be capable of harming a fly, his reaction time was too slow.' Both detectives sharply turned their stares towards Ruaidhrí. Alexx pointed at the book, 'You know the man that wrote this?' 


End file.
